Laissez les Bon Temps Roulet
by XiangXu
Summary: It was supposed to be just a typical NATO meeting. Of course, much to England's discomfort, when seated between France and America, nothing is ever going to go as planned.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Laissez les Bon Temps Roulet

Warnings: Possible OOCness (Haven't worked with France yet, and America is... you'll see).

Disclaimer: I own nothing... I thought that was obvious?

AN: This is unfinished. It was just going to be a really long one-shot, but I kept getting stuck. Making it a few chapters seems to be the better option, I don't know. Any 'French' in this will be Cajun/Creole so if you Frenchies think it looks or sounds wrong, you know why.

_Italics:_ Spoken in French.

* * *

England nodded his head in greeting as he walked by an aide during the mid-hours of the morning. He arrived relatively early to the North Atlantic Treaty Organization's Supreme Allied Command Headquarters in Brussels, Belgium. It was a reasonably tolerable morning. The sun was shining and there wasn't a single cloud to be seen. There was an unusually cold chill in the air for both the time of year, and day, but otherwise it was your standard, stereotypically beautiful day. Of course, there wasn't going to be much time to enjoy such a day as it had the unfortunate privilege of having a NATO conference scheduled within its brief, twenty-four hour existence. Rounding a corner, the representation of Great Britain and Northern Ireland paused briefly in front of a seemingly mundane, wooden door. He took a deep breath through his nose and was greeted by the aroma of tea and ink. It was a strange combination, but one that the island nation found to be both enjoyable and relaxing; often stirring fond memories and that brought a small smile to his face.

Having decided that he had dawdled long enough at the door, the island nation opened the door and walked into the large meeting room. It is certainly, an impressively large room. One with deep, sky blue carpeting and the flags of member states standing in a single file line at one end of the room. Behind the line of flags was a wall adorned with the symbol of the alliance… an area often used for by politicians and other important figures to shake hands in front of the press to let the world feel like something had been accomplished during the long and certainly, trying meetings. England immediately made his way towards the large, custom built table that formed a massive ring around the impressive star embedded in the blue carpeting that formed one part of the NATO symbol. The table formed the other half, a ring that accommodated the cooperating nations and their representatives.

Finding the section of the table marked with a place card bearing the name "United Kingdom", England pulls out the chair and seats himself. He resists the urge to roll his eyes when he notices that he will be between the Republic of France and the United States of America. This was definitely going to be an interesting meeting. Sighing briefly, the blonde nation grabs the manila envelope placed on his section of the desk, provided by the host, containing various reports and outlines of the topics that will be presented in today's meeting. An eyebrow is raised slightly when he notices the topic: _Disaster Preparedness and Civil Emergency Planning._

"Thank you," the nation says to an aide that set a hot cup of tea on the table. Without removing his eyes from the report, he reaches with a free hand for the delicious beverage. He was rather impressed with the report, not because of its contents, but because of its author. To this day, the island nation can't comprehend how Denmark, of all people, was elected to be the Secretary General of the alliance for the current term, but has to grudgingly admit to be pleasantly surprised by his handling of the post. Bringing the tea cup close to his face, the Englishman finally manages to tear himself away from the report to give full attention to the wonderful beverage that so deservingly commands such attention. The color is a marvelous reddish-brown, and the aroma is strong, yet subtle with a hint of some sort of citrus, probably orange. He goes to taste the brew, but suddenly goes rigid and wide eyed as a slimy, creeping chill snakes its way down his spine. It is an ominous and seemingly familiar feeling… one he has not felt in literally decades, maybe centuries.

"Odd", England quietly states to himself as he sets the tea cup carefully on the table, along with the report. He slowly looks around the room, quickly noticing that several of his fellow nations have already made their way into the meeting room and were all preoccupied in some way or form. He could find nothing out of the ordinary, but his attention was effectively derailed from the report. Having lived for literally hundreds, if not thousands of years, one learns to trust the seemingly strange and random feelings and instincts that develop. The sensation was vaguely familiar… it was one the nation often got in the past when a powerful rival was plotting against him. However there was something else about it, it was slightly different, yet familiar. As if he had felt it only in very specific circumstances before. Scrunching his impressive brow, the island nation desperately tried to recall when he had last felt such a sensation. He barely noticed that the room was filling up with a steady stream of individuals. It was only when that disgustingly slimy sensation once again oozed its way down his spine that the representative of Great Britain and Northern Ireland recalled why it was familiar. It was a sensation in which he had really only felt once or twice before in his history. He frantically looks to the empty seats at his sides before glancing towards the door. His eyes narrow as he immediately adopts a menacing look when an all too familiar blonde strolls through the door.

"You," England spits out, venom dripping from the word to such an extent that it could burn a hole through a reinforced steel wall.

"Good morning to you too," France said cheerfully, clearly unaffected by the murderous look aimed at him that could stop a rampaging elephant in its tracks. "You appear to be in a marvelous mood today."

"I know you're planning something," the emerald eyed nation states as he watches the frog from across the channel occupy the seat to his left. His eyes narrow as the Frenchman beside him compliments a passing aide on their business attire. "Where's America?"

"Really, Arthur…" France says as he turns to look his island neighbor in the eyes. He slightly raises a brow in what appears to be minor confusion before continuing. "I honestly have no idea what you're talking about. You should relax your rather, 'impressive', brow before you give yourself a headache."

"I am watching you…" England states while shooting one last glare at his supposedly, 'former' nemesis before warily turning his attention away from the insufferable nation and on to more pressing matters. Like the fact that America still hasn't arrived. Despite his reputation, America, like his people, was surprisingly punctual. He smirks briefly as he remembers a guide for Europeans visiting the USA that advised going to theaters and events about twenty or so minutes early if you wanted a good seat, since most Americans would be doing the same. England quickly pushes the thought aside and focuses on the fact that America and France were obviously plotting something, together. Dealing with one of them is perfectly manageable, but when the two team up, especially when their target is England… well let's just say such plans in the past rarely ended well for Britain. Movement to his right distracts the green eyed blonde from his thoughts.

"Where have you… been…" the Englishman barely manages to finish his sentence when he turns and gazes upon the late arrival. Before him stands the one and only United States of America, however something feels different. The American's hair is spiked up, similar in style to the one commonly sported by Denmark, only it was shorter and seemed softer and 'messier'… but in a purposefully stylized manner. The blue eyed nation's attire was that of a comfortably tight dress shirt and skinny black tie with what appeared to be a worn, dark leather belt holding up a rather snug looking pair of black jeans. To complete the look, the American was wearing an open, form fitting, black leather jacket with a popped collar and lapel. To England, the kid looked like he belonged on some high fashion runway, and not a meeting discussing…

"Disaster Preparedness and Civil Emergency Planning," he manages to mumble quietly to himself after briefly tearing his eyes away from the American and glancing at the report that was temporarily forgotten on his desk. Turning his eyes back to the runway model to his right, the island nation is at an utter loss for words. It's not that England never realized how handsome his former colony had become. After all, the power(s) to be saw fit to curse the majority of their kind with the bodies of attractive, hormonal university students; but America rarely made an effort to dress in such a flattering way. Honestly the whole situation screamed 'Frog'. Despite his body yelling at him either run, or strangle his neighbor, the once mighty British Empire could manage no more than gaping wide eyed like a fish gasping for breath out of water. He managed to quickly recover when the American turned to look at him. The blue eyed nation give England a radiant smile and adopted a cheerful disposition that the Englishman knew from experience was going to be followed with a 'sup, _Dude?,' _or equally informal and potentially idiotic phrasing that Americans dared to pass off as a proper greeting.

"Vomment ca vas," the American said while maintaining that adorable, airheaded smile. And then it happened, something in England snapped, something that required his brain to temporarily shut down and reboot. He stared vacantly as he heard French being spoken with a disappointed, almost chiding tone from his left. Apparently America did stick to character even when not speaking his superior to French, albeit bastardized, English. The momentarily stunned English nation felt his chair turn so that the emerald eyed nation was face to face with his annoying French neighbor. Still not yet fully recovered, he watched motionlessly as the Frenchman gently placed the back of his hand on England's forehead and checked him for fever. It was then that England noticed that France was as dressed to kill as the American. He didn't notice it before, mostly because the Frenchie always tries, keyword 'tries', to be fashionable. The difference being that France's look was more professional. He wore a professionally fitted black suit that was fastened in the middle by a single button. It was simple, comfortable looking, yet classy.

Unfortunately for England, the scene quickly evolved into the two blued eyed nations fussing over, and at one point, jostling the island nation and having a conversation in French? The European was clearly speaking French, but the American was speaking some sort of variation that was difficult to follow. Slowly, the representative of the United Kingdom came too. The scene of two seemingly French speaking nations placing their slimy frog hands all over him in public, and the large amount of amused and bewildered stares, brought the temporarily incapacitated nation back.

"Stop touching me!" England commanded as he swatted at the French and American hands invading his personal space. Once the two offending nations' hands retreated, the Englishman paused a moment to collect himself before calmly, and slowly turning to once again face France. "What the hell have you done," he manages to barely refrain from yelling.

"_I haven't done anything,"_ France replied, looking mildly surprised, and maybe just a tad hurt at the accusation. Of course, it is just an act. England knows his rival well enough to recognize that.

"Don't give me that," England says before pointing to the American on the right hand side of his table. "Explain that then."

"'_That' would be America. For a supposed 'gentleman', referring to someone as 'that' seems rather rude,"_ the Frenchman states while indignantly lifting his nose ever so slightly to the irate Englishman.

England rolls his eyes before casting a weary glance at his former colony. Said nation appeared to animatedly be holding a conversation with Belgium. However, the beryl eyed nation couldn't help but notice the subtleties of the conversation. The barely noticeable positioning of the body, subtle movements, minor, yet seemingly well timed touches… the American was clearly flirting and if Belgium's periodic smiles, and playful giggling were anything to go by, was quite successful in his endeavor. It was strange to watch; on the surface America seemed to be his usual, cheerfully oblivious self… but if one were to look closer, there was an unusual French influence being channeled.

"I am not convinced," England states as he narrows his eyes and returns his gaze back to France. "More importantly, why are you both speaking French?"

Almost immediately after the question leaves his lips, the Englishman feels a breath accompanied by barely intelligible words. Words that England couldn't quite catch the meaning of but were delivered in such a way that he suddenly felt very warm and uncomfortable in his clothing. It was almost as if there were too many layers that desperately needed to be shed. He shifts his gaze to his former colony and is greeted by a dangerously playful expression; dangerous in that it was a playful expression only suitable for the bedroom.

"_I have learned from a most reliable source that you secretly find French to be particularly," _England quickly directs his attention to France as a foreign hand slowly rubs his leg. His breath hitches as he notices the devious, seductive expression on the blue eyed European. "_Attractive."_

Before the representative of the United Kingdom could protest such an abhorrent and baseless accusation with the subtle and tactful statecraft of throttling, the meeting is called to order. Straightening himself up, England focuses his attention on the opening presentation as he feels the heat slowly subside from his body. He quickly shoots glances towards his right and left and takes some comfort in the fact that the two clearly insane nations he is seated between appear to be providing their undivided attention to the presenter. Breathing a small sigh of relief, the Englishman pulls out a pen and begins to underline key points in the report on his table. It seemed that with the meeting underway he wouldn't have to worry about any more encounters for the time being… Of course that unreasonable delusion was quickly shattered when he felt a foot brushing up against his right leg and a gentle squeeze above his left knee.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Laissez les Bon Temps Roulet

Warnings: Prussia, always Prussia

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine... except for the plot

A/N: I don't really like how this turned out. Bumbing it up to 'M' for language, just to be safe. Also, I have a poll in my profile you should visit. I put some story ideas I had up and thought the readers could vote on the one they like best.

* * *

"_Go on, feel it,"_ a boisterous voice said from the opposite side of a closed door. A short break had been declared and England had taken the opportunity to immediately withdraw from the battlefield and reorganize his defenses. The Frog and Yank were once again proving to be a formidable duo. England had unfortunately spent the first half of the meeting enduring the relentless offensive that had been launched against him. The blue eyed duo had spent the majority of the meeting thus far reminding him of the 'neglect' he had been subjecting his body to these past several… months. Running the world is a difficult and demanding task. A task that requires great sacrifice. He couldn't help it if he was so bogged down with paperwork that he couldn't go out and relax or have fun for months… or years at a time. The other nations may be willing to shirk their duties, but England isn't other nations.

Images from earlier in the day flash through his mind. America leaning back in his chair and stretching to the point that his shirt untucked itself slightly, revealing the exposed groove above the hip that trailed down towards more 'fun' regions. England wasn't sure what it was called, but it is hot. The worst part was that France would sometimes lean in close and ask the green eyed nation questions. Legitimate questions (in French) about the meeting, but delivered on warm breath and accompanied by a delicate, yet manly scent that caused the island nation to feel a warm tingling sensation that would spread agonizingly slowly throughout his entire body.

"This meeting is a disaster," England mutters to himself as he tries to shake the two seemingly cunning nations out of his mind. A boisterous laugh interrupts his thoughts and the Englishman finally pushes open the door to the meeting. He is unsure whether or not he is ready to face what may be occurring on the other side of the wooden barrier, but backing out of a challenge to his authority was not an option. As the door gave way, it revealed an interesting scene, to say the last. Most of the nations were already in their assigned seats, conversing amongst themselves. Occasionally, some would shoot glances towards a particular trio with brows raised in intrigue. Some of the individuals were blatantly leering like hungry wolves. Following their gazes, England's eyes find their way towards France, America, and Turkey. Turkey not only had seized England's seat for himself but had the first three buttons of his dress shirt undone. However, this wasn't what commanded the other nation's attention. It was most likely the fact that America has a hand in the opening and is running it through the Mediterranean nation's chest hair. The most noticeable, and arousing, aspect of the whole scene is America's amazingly expressive face. It is tinted pink ever so slightly, and looks like the blonde American is trying to cover up his embarrassment with an overly confident expression, but having trouble keeping up the act. Quite simply, it was adorable. Not cute animal adorable, but keep that up and I'm going to push you down into the mattress uncontrollably, adorable.

"_Now that is a real man's chest,"_ France practically purred as he leaned over his accomplice and began showering the Turk with compliments on his physique. England couldn't help but notice that France and America made for a particularly devastating combination. Both had an unusually grand command of arousing facial expressions. One promised youthful enthusiasm and the placing of complete trust in your hands to let you do with their body as you please. The other promised to teach things you never knew and pleasure only dreamed of. Turkey never had a chance, the poor bastard. Moving his gaze towards the duo's unfortunate victim, he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes as he watched the two blondes shower Turkey with attention, causing said nation to puff out his chest and produce a smile that almost rivaled the American's. If this were one of America's cartoons, the two would be depicted hooking Turkey up to a bicycle pump and filling him full of hot air until he burst.

"Well, better him than me," England says quietly to himself as he sneaks off towards Turkey's assigned seat. Thankfully the dark haired nation seemed perfectly content with where he is currently seated and shows no intention of returning to his designated seat on the opposite side of the room. Although the two blonde deviants would still be in his field of vision, England took comfort in the fact that there would now be significant distance between him and them. Maybe now he could finally focus on the meeting instead of trying to reign in the indecent urges of his body and mind.

"You lucky bastard," a familiar and unwelcome voice made itself known as England seated himself.

"Oh, dear lord," the green eyed nation groaned as he slumped forward in defeat. Of course, he'd escape the clutches of two moronic nations only to be driven into the metaphorical arms of another. England turns his head to the left to gaze at the crimson eyed devil seated next to him. "Please, don't utter another word."

"Why are you so down," Prussia questions with a smirk as he leans towards the smaller blonde nation. "America and France are practically throwing themselves at you. Imagine being sandwiched in between that…"

"That's a rather horrifying thought," England counters as he straightens up and begins to rearrange the contents on the desk. It's a bit too messy for his tastes, not to mention the fact that it gives him a task to focus on instead of Prussia's, bound to be inane mutterings. If he hadn't known the ex-nation for so long, he'd think the gibbering fool fell out of an H.P. Lovecraft novel. He certainly has an impressively long list of people he's driven mad over the centuries.

"Pfft… don't act like that, I saw the way your face turned all, old man, creeper perv when America flashed his cum gutter your way," Prussia replied while patting the Englishman on the back and flashing a devilish smirk.

"W… What!?" England sputtered as he tried in vain to remember when America had done something so incredibly lewd sounding. For the life of him, he couldn't recall anything overtly perverted in America's actions during the meeting thus far. Either he missed something dirty, or Prussia is clearly being an idiot. One thing is for certain though, England has to figure out what France has planned and put a stop to it. It hopefully isn't too late to save America from the horrific French influence he is currently under.

"You know," Prussia said as he leans back in his chair away from England. The green eyed nation watches with mild shock as a pale hand reaches down and pulls up a dark dress shirt, revealing to all nearby, a remarkably well toned stomach. It reminds the Englishman of the various statues of Greek and Roman gods. Prussia's pale skin made his stomach literally look like it was sculpted out of marble. The fact that it was so pale it reflected light helped as well. Although he'd never admit it out loud, it wasn't bad to look at… However, before England could further contemplate the sculpture like qualities of his new table partner, the Prussian pointed to the furrows that ran from above the hip to the 'private' area in a 'V' shape and matter-of-factly proclaimed, 'cum gutter'.

Releasing what had to be one of many exasperated sighs to come; England pressed a hand to the side of his forehead and began to rub. He could feel a headache coming on. The only positive he could see coming from this is that the Prussian, with his stunning command of tact and language, had thoroughly killed whatever mood France and America had been trying to stir in him.

"Aphrodite's Saddle," a voice from the other side of Prussia slowly stated. England reluctantly moved his head to the side to acknowledge the individual that decided to butt into the conversation. The island nation was relatively surprised to see that Greece was up and about; instead of quietly observing the meeting in a seemingly lethargic haze. Although, given today's meeting, not much would surprise. England raises a brow when he notices the Mediterranean staring intently at the Germanic nation's stomach. "Apollo's Belt, Heracles' Girdle, Iliac Furrow; The shallow grooves on the human abdomen that run from the iliac crest," Greece says as he points to the Prussian's exposed hip and then lazily traces the path of the anatomical feature in question a few centimeters above it towards the pubic area. "… to the pubis. Not 'cum gutter'."

England silently watches the scene before him unsure of what to think. Greece is giving the red eyed nutcase an uncharacteristically harsh glare; while Prussia looks like he is seriously contemplating the information he has just been given before that signature laugh of his erupts from his lips.

"Aphrodite's Saddle, Awesome!" the red eyed nation finally fixes his shirt before giving the Mediterranean nation at his side his undivided attention. "What other names do you have for parts of the body?" Greece's harsh glare immediately softens to its standard, laid back expression, before switching to one of mild contemplation. England face palms and groans as Greece lifts his own shirt to expose himself and begins to point out various anatomical features.

"What is wrong with everyone," the green eyed nation asks out loud to no one in particular. He turns away from the two nations and chances a glance across the room. France seems to have left Turkey at the mercy of his American accomplice. England couldn't help note the slight smile and the look of pride on the Frenchman's face as he quietly observers the American. He switches his gaze towards the darker skinned Mediterranean man and can't help feeling a bit jealous. It is nice every now and then to be praised, to receive compliments, and just having someone making you feel… confident and proud about yourself. It has been quite a long while since anyone has done anything remotely similar to England. Nations tend to only provide such attention when they want something, and once that something is had, they forget about you. Although he is sure America and France have similar motives, it is still nice to experience… sometimes, when no one is looking. Or when they are looking and your merits are being praised and displayed for all to see by another. The Englishman's face, of its own accord, adorns itself with a devious, yet goofy looking smirk as his train of thought slowly begins to turn into fantasy. Socially acceptable fantasies, mind you, but fantasies involving multiple parties none-the-less.

Of course, all good things must come to an end. Unfortunately France had taken notice of England's daydreaming and flashed a knowing smirk and raised brow at the island nation. It was a look that clearly stated, 'I know what you're thinking.' Immediately England throws on a scowl and shoots a quick glare at his blue eyed rival. Quickly turning the glare into a smirk of his own; using that strange language of facial expressions that only two very, very close people develop between themselves, issues a challenge, 'I'd like to see you try something to me from way over there.' England watches with amusement as France simply throws on a fun, playful smile before turning his attention towards the presenter.

'Wait, when did the meeting start,' the emerald eyed nation asks himself as he follows France's gaze until it lands on Denmark. He purses his lips in contemplation as he notices the tall Northern European. The Dane was currently standing at his spot at the supposed 'head' of the table, even though it was a round table, discussing points about his report in a surprisingly calm and dignified manner. However, something seemed off. Tilting his head he watches the presenting nation closely, scrutinizing every movement. It isn't until he glances at the Danish man's mouth that the gears inside England's head begin to turn. Quickly, almost out of instinct, England focuses attention on a different group of nations quietly discussing the report and notices that what was 'off' with Denmark was effecting them as well. Straining to filter through the voices of the nations that he can hear one by one; he realizes with rising horror that they are all suffering from the same terrible affliction.

"Everyone is speaking French," England says to himself while looking positively miserable. The last time he had to suffer through meetings entirely in French, European empires were carving up the world amongst themselves. Everyone during that time period came down with an almost incurable case of French cultural influence. Except for himself, text books be damned. This was somehow all France's doing. He probably told all the nations while England was out composing himself, to use that horribly arousing… Correction: just plain horrible language during the remainder of the meeting. His eyes narrow as a terrible thought worms its way into England's mind. France and America both have disgustingly infectious cultures. Maybe France was trying to make a move, create some sort of resurgent French Empire and America was helping. Maybe he was promised the entirety of the Western Hemisphere… or something. France had another thing coming if he thought that England would just sit around and let that happen. He knew those two had been spending far too much time together in recent years.

Once again turning his fierce gaze towards the blonde European nation across the room, England is greeted by a taunting smirk. Steeling his gaze, England watches, unamused, as the Frog blows a kiss towards him. It takes everyone ounce of England's considerable, and impressive, self-restraint to refrain from hurling a particularly scathing castigation towards the annoying man. Mostly, he refrains from doing so because France will just ignore the whole thing like England said something uninteresting and not worth listening too. Eventually the Englishman decides that all he needs to do is get through the meeting and everything will return to normal afterwards. America is often easily distracted and England honestly can't imagine the lad would keep up the charade for more than a day before growing bored.

"What the…" England mutters as he feels something brushing up against his leg. He leans back in his chair a bit and takes a peek under the table. Nothing. "That's odd," the island nation says to himself as he looks towards his side and notices that Prussia is doodling pictures of cats and birds all over Greece's white shirt. While the darker skinned man watches and occasionally points at an unmarked section of shirt before the red eyed man moves to mark it up. Clearly those two weren't up to anything nefarious. Hesitantly, the Englishman turns his attention back towards France and notices that the man seems to be serpressing a laugh in an effort to not draw attention to himself. The Frenchie then waggles his eyebrows and England nearly jumps out of his seat as he feels what could only be described as a hand squeezing his knee.

"What the hell?" The green eyed man almost shouts as he pushes his seat out from under the table and looks under it. Once again there is nothing under there. What's more, Prussia, Greece, and a few nearby nations are leveling question looks in his direction. "I apologize for the interruption," England says as he straightens out a few wrinkles on his attire to avoid the others' gazes. With what probably seemed to be undue caution to everyone present, the island nation scoots the chair, and himself back in place at the table. Shooting what could only be described as a death glare towards France, England watches as the rival European leans towards the American, looking far to amused for the island nation's liking, and whispers something that causes both nations to direct their attention towards the English representative.

"If they want to play dirty, then so be it," England mutters as he reaches for and struggles to extract his smart phone from his pants pocket. "All I have to do is find some mind numbingly idiotic video on Youtube and send it to America. That'll ruin France's nefarious plan. Maybe find something 'Murican as the vast sea of morons inhabiting cyber space call it."

Distracted with the formulation of his plan, England fails to notice the sounds of two nations desperately trying to keep from laughing from across the room. It is only when a foreign hand reaches into the island nations pocket and extracts his phone with an unnatural ease that England realizes something is terribly wrong. His senses that he had spent untold centuries honing to prevent himself from falling prey to Frogs suddenly kicks in and were screaming at him. The Englishman could feel his heart start to pound in his chest as his body is preparing to either fight or flight. Slowly, England turns toward the side of the table that he just now realizes he had unintentionally overlooked and gulps nervously at what he sees.

"C... Canada?"


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Laissez les Bon Temps Roulet

Warnings: Stuff

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, just their actions.

A/N: This would've been out sooner, but life... 'nuff said. Also, I have no beta, so I read, and re-read what I write trying to fix grammar and punctuation. Doing that also causes me to decide that I don't like certain parts and rewrite them.

* * *

England couldn't decide what was worse, the fact that France seems to have put an absurdly detailed plan against him into motion, or the look on the scruffy Frog's face every time the door to a possible escape route gets slammed in his face. In all truthfulness, the island nation was completely blindsided by Canada's involvement in France's scheme. He hadn't been so unprepared and surprised by an enemy in centuries. It was embarrassing, and although he'd never admit it out loud, it was also kind of exciting. During the meeting, thus far, there was no escape. If it wasn't the Canadian's 'accidental' and light touches that caused the Englishman's senses to somehow become hyper-sensitive, it was the blue eyed duo on the other side of the room making some unbelievably subtle, yet arousing scenes. The now trio of blondes, had left not only England, but a large number of the representatives squirming in their seats as their pants seemed to become agonizingly restrictive. The friction that subsequently followed such movements was both welcome and unwelcome simultaneously. Mercifully, another break had been called, though instead of a simple pause, this break in the meeting was for lunch. England did intended to use the opportunity to make an expedited tactical withdrawal… However, France reminded the emerald eyed nation why he had earned his spot as 'Nemesis'.

After the lunch break had been called, France gathered everyone's attention and informed all in attendance that lunch had been arranged at his, America, and Canada's expense. Not only that, but lunch would be held in the '_simple, yet aesthetically pleasing garden_'. Of course this announcement was made with more flare and show then was required, and England definitely noticed the challenge France sent his way in the form of a smirk. Unfortunately, the island nation's escape route had been effectively cut off. With the other nations seemingly excited about the prospect of a free meal and their human attendants being invited, the representation of the United Kingdom had no choice but to attend. Sometimes politics were, as America would so eloquently say, 'A real bitch'. England could just imagine the headlines the following day. _The United Kingdom Snubs Major NATO Allies at Luncheon._ Well played, Frog.

This is why the blonde haired nation was now currently sitting at one of the many tables scattered throughout the NATO headquarters' garden. Thankfully a small hitch had developed in France's plan. Turkey was proving to be more than a little unwilling in letting America's attention be directed at someone other than himself. He wasn't obnoxious or pushy about it; centuries of treading through the political landmine of Medieval and Imperial Europe makes one quite skilled at getting what you want with absurd subtlety in social situations. This had allowed the Englishman an opening while the trio was preoccupied with trying to get rid of the Mediterranean without directly snubbing or rejecting him. If the green eyed nation was lucky, they'd end up in some sort of infinite loop of political, social niceties.

Looking up from where he was seated at the table in the far corner, away from the main 'action', England couldn't help but take in the sight of the flags flying on the poles that effectively serve as a fence for the simple rectangular garden (which was really just a large patch of lawn with a sizeable amount of flags flapping about in the wind.) For a moment, the Englishman temporarily forgot about the absurdity of the meeting as he came to the conclusion that the scene before him would make for a marvelous painting. A luncheon with mingling guests on a bright, cloudless day, surrounded by their national standards… The almost serene look on England's face is quickly replaced with a scowl. All this rampant French influence was definitely starting to affect his thought processes.

"_Enjoying yourself,_" an all too familiar voice announced the presence of an equally familiar individual.

"No," England scoffed as he attempted to scoot away from the blonde man that rudely seated himself, uninvited, at the Englishman's table. He didn't even care anymore that everyone was still speaking French. Continuing to speak English was so far his only way to defy the scruffy bastard. "I don't see how anyone could possibly be enjoying themselves, it's a political event; work! Something that should be taken quite seriously," The smaller blonde pauses briefly to shoot a disapproving look that would remind any 'normal' human of the kind their mother gave them when they did something they shouldn't have towards the taller French nation. "I have no idea what you are trying to do, other than be utterly annoying, but I suppose that is just who you are."

"_Fine, I'll tell you my magnificent plan. Honestly, I expected more from you… and you're supposedly my rival,"_ France states with a small chuckle, as if the thought of England being a worthy adversary was mildly amusing. _"No one ever gets anything done at these things. Everyone is always so on edge, so anxious, and… dare I say? Frustrated!"_ The blue eyed nation says dramatically. One hand clutched against his chest while the other conveniently finds its way onto the shorter man's leg. England immediately rolls his eyes and pushes the offending French appendage away from his person a little more forcefully than needed. Unfazed, the Frenchman continues, _"I truly believe that meetings would be far more productive if everyone in attendance was more relaxed. Imagine what could be accomplished if that pent up stress and pressure from our frustrating lives was gone. If all that tension was, released?"_

"Let me get this straight." England says incredulously while leveling an 'are you an utter moron look' at the French nation at his side. "You're trying to get everyone laid so that the subsequent meetings of this NATO session will be more productive?"

"_Ingenious, no?"_ France replies with a smile. _"I just need to remind them of how neglectful they have been to their poor bodies._" He lightly places a hand on the island nation's face while leaning in slowly. The motion of which causes England's heart to race and face to slightly tent red._ "Sometimes you just need to add more tension, of a certain variety, before it all suddenly… Bursts."_

"Back off, Frog!" England shouts as he shoves the offending nation away. He turns his head so that he is looking at anything other than the Frenchie. Although he'd never admit it, this whole situation was definitely forcing the Englishman to realize just how much of a 'dry spell' he had been subjected to. All the flirting, the touches, the smells, the strategic flashing of skin, and whatever such nonsense had his whole body on edge and staging a full scale rebellion against his mind. It also wasn't all that bad of an idea that everyone might be a bit more productive at these meetings if they were allowed to 'unwind' beforehand, as it were. Of course, England would never tell anyone that a 'French idea' was a 'good' or even 'slightly decent' idea. After a brief pause to collect himself, and let the obvious red tint drain from his face, he turns towards France. "Although such an idea is definitely right up your alley. Why, might I ask, is it that you seem to be targeting only me?"

"_Why? You obviously would benefit the most. You're always so high strung, I'm surprised you haven't experienced some sort of mental breakdown yet."_ France replies in a nonchalant manner that England, in some inexplicable way, finds to be incredibly infuriating. _"Besides, you're just one of the 'actors' in my play. You just haven't realized it until now."_

Slightly puzzled by the last statement, the emerald eyed man furrows his brow together while trying to process what was just said. He slowly glances around the garden and notices something. Although everyone appears to be engaging in their own conversations, they occasionally shoot glances towards himself and France. Sometimes they instead glance at a pair of North Americans. Who interestingly enough have managed to lose Turkey, and are engaged in their own conversation; seemingly oblivious to the fact that they actually have a decent sized crowd of people watching them. Canada was dressed in the same dress shirt, skinny tie, and flared leather jacket combo as his brother. It proved to be just as devastatingly attractive on the northern brother. The only difference, besides their eye color, was their hair. America's was what could only be described as a stylish, hot mess; while his brother's was pulled back into a loose, short pony tail that was some strange combination of classy with an ever so slight amount of sleaze. At first, England couldn't understand why Canada would willing choose to dress exactly like his brother, but seeing them together, and the crowd watching, it was all too clear. They were literally entertaining the World's 'hot twin' fantasies.

That particular revelation is further 'driven home' when the two nations seem to break out in a brotherly quarrel. America seems to want something from his brother's plate, but Canada is denying him. Eventually the Canadian picks up his plate and moves it of reach of his brother, who leans in rather closely, in an attempt to grab it. England can't help but notice that the spectators near the scene have paused their own conversations in order to watch the display. Temporarily, the American appears to give up on his quest of raiding his brother's lunch with a signature pout that cause the hearts of those watching to skip a beat. However, his face quickly adopts a devious smirk before turning and placing a hand on both sides of the Canadian's head. Canada looks slightly confused by the action. His confusion is replaced by shock as his brother leans in and licks his face. With his brother temporarily incapacitated, the American grabs a fork and stabs at what looks to be some sort of pastry, before quickly stuffing it into his mouth with a victorious smile. The Canadian quickly recovers, and shock is replaced by embarrassment. His face turns red as he looks around to see if anyone had just seen what had happened while whipping his cheek and looking so adorable in the process that England could swear everyone present was shamelessly slavering at the sight.

"_They make me so proud,"_ France says with a sniff while pressing a napkin to the corner of his eye. _"Come on!"_ the Frenchman says a little loudly as he gets up out of his seat. Before England can even process a retort, he can feel slimy frog hands latch on to his arm, and unceremoniously yank him out of seat and into a standing position. For a brief second, he contemplates whether or not to give the taller nation a good thrashing, but mercifully chooses not to. It wouldn't do to have one ally smash another's smug face into the dirt during a major political event. Although, that doesn't stop the increasingly irritated and displeased look from forming on his face as he is practically dragged through the garden, towards his former colonies. The trip is fortunately a quick one, and England hasn't failed to notice the looks of anticipation directed towards the four blonde nations.

"I'm going to be sick," the island nation states as he takes a seat at the table. There's an overwhelmingly powerful French aura emanating from the area and England's limit for French influences was unsurprisingly surpassed quite quickly in the day. He glances briefly at the two North Americans now seated directly across from him. America looks characteristically excited. England could just imagine the blue eyed American sprouting puppy ears and a tail that was wagging so fast, the moment would cause his lower body… to move with it. He once again finds himself turning red as his mind decides to join his body and derail the thought of 'American hindquarters moving' into an unwelcome direction. Trying to desperately distract himself, England quickly averts his attention towards the Canadian at the American's side. The Englishman watches helplessly as the Canadian simply smiles and offers a greeting, in French, that the island nation's mind interprets to be far more arousing that it most likely is. To make matters worse, the violet eyed Canadian produces England's sell phone and pushes it towards England, their hands lightly brushing against each other as the smaller of the two reaches to retrieve it. Once again his mind meanders off into the gutter as at that moment, it decides to remember that the Canadian technically had his hands in England's pants earlier in the day.

Mercifully, the indecent train of thought is brought back (as it where) when a relatively loud yelp emanates from where America is sitting. Returning his gaze to the blue eyed nation, England is relatively surprised to see that Turkey has embraced his tan, muscular arms around the younger and was whispering something in the blonde's ear. Whatever it was, it must have been something completely inappropriate for civilized company as it was causing the American to sport a rare look of 'true embarrassment' that seems to occasionally mingle with arousal. Watching whatever is unfolding, the British nation can't help but notice the way that the Turk's darker skin tone complimented the azure eyed nation's lighter skin. Their skin was remarkably smoothing looking and England finds himself fighting the strangest urge to reach out and touch both nations.

"Uhh… What?" England mutters as he is pulled from his daze as he realizes America has said something. Before he can ask again, the American is away from the table and willfully being dragged off by the older Mediterranean nation.

"_Who would have thought that America would be into… the hairy, manly type?_" France asks with a content smile on his face. Turning towards England, he nods his head to the side in effort to get the smaller blonde to divert his attention away from the retreating forms of two nations and towards something else. "_It would seem that my plan is moving along quite beautifully."_

"What about the rest of the meeting?" The Englishman asks as he notices that the crowd of nations at the luncheon appears to be dwindling in size. No doubt they were 'hooking up' and sneaking off. Leave it to France to turn an international alliance into some sort of swingers' club. "Wait, where's Canada?" he asks as he suddenly realizes that he is once again, alone with the slimy frog. Squinting his beryl eyes, England can barely make out what appears to be his former charge being dragged off by Hungary, of all people, towards an Austria that is walking away, with an uncharacteristic amount of haste.

"_That just leaves the two of us,_" the Frenchman purrs as he leans in towards the shorter blonde. England feels his face heat up when he locks gazes with the sapphires the other dared to pass off as eyes. As hard as he tried, the Englishman couldn't look away. It was as if he was spellbound, and could only see blue and feel his heart thrash against the walls of his rib cage, as if it was trying to escape some cruel fate. The distance between the two starts to get smaller and smaller with each passing second. Just as they were seemingly, mere millimeters apart, England suddenly raises a hand and pushes it against France's face with enough force to knock the offending nation out of his seat and on to the ground… it was as if his body had an automated defense procedure against lecherous Frenchmen. In that instance, his eyes catch a movement that momentarily diverts the island nation's attention. Once he recognizes what has temporarily distracted him, the island nation's cunning suddenly kicks in and a 'counter attack' is quickly thrown together and executed. It was time for some revenge and a swift and decisive victory in this Anglo-French conflict.

"I must admit," England says as a victorious smirk forms. "I have spent this whole day being constantly reminded of the horrific 'dry spell' I have been suffering. What's more, that fact has been so thoroughly driven, that there is no conceivable way that I can continue to ignore it. You're idiotic plan has indeed been a 'success'," England pauses and takes in the sight of the Frenchman, still sitting at his new place on the ground, looking smug before continuing. "However, there is one flaw in it that I thoroughly intend to exploit and use to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat."

Standing up, England walks away from France and feels a sense of satisfaction at the slightly confused look the other European is now sporting. Turning towards the distraction from earlier, England tries to concentrate on something other than the feeling of his pants rubbing against the more sensitive areas of his body as he walks.

"Hola…"

"Shut it," England says as he walks up to Spain, who seems to have been left on his own at some point during the luncheon, and grabs the darker skinned man by the arm and walks off, Spaniard in tow, towards his car. "You better hurry and find someone, the pickings are getting slim," the Englishman says without looking back.

* * *

I apologize for the ending, kind of lost interest half way through. I intended to have more Canada and end with FrUk but England wasn't cooperating. Also, I find the idea of TurkAme to be insanely hot. Also, Austria isn't in NATO, but Hungary is and I imagine he'd be an 'observer' state that Hungary takes with her.


End file.
